Inquinatus
by Narsus
Summary: When emotion and reason are hollow... A comtemplation of services rendered. [Severus' POV]


**Inquinātus**

Inquinātus – _adj._ filthy, impure.

- Collins, _Latin Dictionary_

Disclaimer: Characters, settings etc belong to J. K. Rowling and her respective publishers and associates.

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**Severus****' POV**

I keep my quarters in the dungeons for many reasons. The silence and isolation being the main ones. As the Potions Master and current Head of Slytherin House, I am required to be available to listen to my students' queries and concerns from time to time. Thus, I do keep certain office hours but in actuality while I must be available for such consultation there are no rules that govern the circumstances that such consultation must occur under. That is, it is entirely in my own hands as to whether I take the time to hear out the often longwinded and sometimes exaggerated difficulties that my students encounter. Sometimes though, I choose to listen and it seems so very strange to see their innocent lives unfurling in such predictable patterns. Of course, most people would not judge the machinations of young Slytherins to be innocent. Often enough the matters that are brought to my attention are perceived problems with other Houses rather than anything more critical. The more important issues that my young charges encounter, they tend to deal with themselves.

Other than seeing to my duties as a teacher I'm free to do as I please here in the depths of Hogwarts Castle. The dungeons are vast and Albus has granted me the run of them. No one knows or cares what I spend my time engaged in. Nor do they know just how far my laboratories and various chambers stretch out. While the odd daring student might try to gain access of my private quarters, my labyrinthine corridors soon confound them. And as a precaution there are many wards to prevent intruders straying into uncharted parts of the dungeon where… they might be lost for longer than they'd anticipated. There are also various warning systems to alert me to their presence in areas where it would be… undesirable. And while other staff might bypass many of these precautions there are still certain regions of my subterranean domain that they would not be able to find, let alone enter. Even Albus has overlooked a few of my more 'experimental' laboratories.

It is in such laboratories that I have perfected some of my most effective potions. Learnt the ways in which precise application can prolong both life and suffering. Incidentally, these are not experiments carried over from the days in my lord Voldemort's service. The average Death Eater does not have the patience for such things. And while a torture session might be stretched out to cover a good few hours, any particular action is expected to produce some visible, immediate result. It is a shame really, when a little time given over to research would yield up most advantageous results. When, with the right combination of potions and hexes life really could be measured out in increments of pain.

I have heard pain called an arbitrary measure and in relation to the timing of seconds stretching into minutes turning into hours, I suppose it is. But sometimes the measure of being, of reality, of life itself is an arbitrary one. One might define existence by emotions like hate or love. By ambition or courage. But I am beginning to think that I have left such distinctions behind. Oh, occasionally I feel irrational flashes of emotion; rage and seething hatred more often that not. But gone are the days when those emotions would have sustained me. There was a time when revenge would have mattered enough to me that I would have pursued it with the last ounce of my energy. When I might have thrown aside every other concern to exact my vengeance from people like Sirius Black. Once…

There's little use in it now, especially when I've learnt time and time again how very little consequence my existence has. If forced to choose between us, I have little doubt that Albus would easily hand me over to the Ministry again. After all, what is my life worth in comparison to the likes of Black and Potter? I wonder if I should resent that. Somehow I can't quite find the energy to do so. Why bother with something so fruitless in the first place. Besides, I really don't think that I care any more. Who would really care about me when I don't particularly care about myself? I wonder if that is an improvement or not.

Perhaps I have served my masters for too long already that I have forgotten what it is to want something purely for myself. It is at times like these that I am adrift in a meaningless sea of existence. I feel nothing; care for nothing, my futile ambition is all but burnt out. There is nothing left that moves me, not to hatred or otherwise. Perhaps I was capable of love once, a long time ago but I have forgotten that now. I can not imagine what it must have been like, it all seems so very long ago and the only clear recollection that I hold on to is that it was painfully pointless. An impossible dream that made me throw all caution aside and rush headlong into destruction. If anyone were to ask my opinion now I would tell them that love is but a feeble aspiration, ephemeral and that it is best avoided. Love is damnation.

And if anyone doubts it, just look at what it did to Lilly Evans. She sacrificed her life to save her son and what of it now? Now, she is dead and that really is the end of it. Perhaps death was a mercy to her. Narcissa Black loved a man who loved his ambition more and what of her now? A lunatic bride with her gowns and her trinkets and a husband whose eyes are as cold as slate.

But what was it that I was thinking of before? Yes, the numbness that creeps up upon me far more frequently these days. Some days there is nothing but this emptiness and everything passing in a haze of preordained speech and action. I stop thinking about what I feel and find myself moving to do what ever it is that I am _supposed_ to do in varied situations. I have taught whole days through in that state of mind, though my students are none the wiser. Perhaps this is the final proof that my existence is only of consequence in relation to whom I serve. It has, this business of living, nothing to do with _me_ what so ever.

Only tonight I have proven my usefulness once again. In the service of the Light, by servitude to the Dark Lord. And what did I do that was so very great an aid to Albus' schemes? What was it that was done at the behest of my lord Voldemort that might be the key to unravelling his plans? Nothing. Nothing at all. Tonight the pureblood elite, the vanguard of His armies tortured a handful of unlucky muggles to death. The purpose of which was, apparently, to send some sort of message to the Ministry. To show the muggle sympathisers that the Dark Lord was all powerful and wrathful. To prove that the great and feared Heir of Slytherin is nothing but a petty fool. And there it is; half a dozen muggles died tonight, for no particular reason at all.

Returning to Hogwarts in the darkness before the predawn lightening of the sky, I make my way slowly across the grounds. My robes drag about me, heavy with blood and dirt. My limbs are aching from a mixture of cold and exhaustion. I think the cool air has frozen my face into a death mask. My hands are equally freezing. And I am sure that every time I swallow, I can taste blood. Perhaps I can, the smell is overpowering enough as it is. Thankfully there is no one else about to notice, not my long walk across the grounds or through the deserted corridors of the school. It is better this way; I'd rather not have to endure the shocked looks of anyone that I might encounter.

As I make my way down the twisted corridors that lead to my private chambers I can relax a little. I pause to stretch the cramped muscles in my shoulders and let my sodden cloak drop from where it was folded over my arm, to trail behind me. Continuing on my way, I can hear the material drag across the stones. It is most probably leaving a trail of slickly drying blood and dried mud in its wake. No matter, the house-elves who remove such unsightly stains from my dungeons are used to it, by now.

Beyond the corridors now, I can already see the steam seeping from the bathroom and am pleased to note that my bath had already been run. The house-elves are most definitely used to my habits by now. I peel my layers of clothing off, dropping them onto the floor to lie in their own accumulating pools of blood. There is blood drying on my skin and in my hair, though how it splashed that far I don't know. Even the Dark Mark is crusted over with it, which for some reason amuses me no end.

In the bathroom I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror. This pale, gangly figure in monochrome shades, highlighted by varying tones of red. Most of the blood covers my forearms, though there are smeared patches on my legs where my robes have stuck. There's a streak of red across the left side of my neck, which has soaked further down the shoulder of my robe to smear the skin beneath. It's probably due to Macnair's enthusiasm with that axe of his and lack of observance on my part that I've been sprayed almost in the face. Another large smear at my right elbow, as if someone's blood-soaked hand has grasped my arm. Most likely Lucius, who when the mood strikes him can be just as careless as the rest. The ends of my hair are dripping as I watch my reflection for long moments before turning towards my bath.

I sink back into the warm water and watch idly as it turns red. My hair is still dripping as I sit, leaning back against the side of the bath but I can't find the energy to do anything about it. My right hand hangs out over the edge of the bath and my attention is captivated by the blood that drips down my arm, sliding off my fingertips to splash on the floor. I don't pay attention to how long I've been sitting here; it's not as if it matters anyway. My head lolls back against the rim of the bath and for a while my gaze is fixed on the ceiling. Then I let my eyes become unfocused as I lie there, my mind half empty. Though for a moment the thought that the Dementor's Kiss doesn't sound too bad, crosses my mind.

I'm disturbed a little while later, again I don't actually know how much time has passed, especially since the water temperature won't be any indication due to a constant heating charm. I turn my head a little and have to blink several times to focus on the figure of Albus Dumbledore standing beside me with a look of grave concern on his face. I follow his gaze to the red-tinged water and my arm crusted with dried blood. I have to bite back the insane chuckle that threatens to escape me. Albus lives in fear of this, I discovered some time ago, that he might come down to my chambers to check on me one day and find me lying, insensible with my wrists slit.

I give me him my best rictus grin and get a frown in response. Then I haul myself out of the bath and move over to the shower to wash away the remains of tonight's activities. His concerned gaze follows me and I turn my back as the warm water sprays down, to hide a smirk. It would seem that my master is concerned about my wellbeing after all. My smirk broadens.

And what will it be that I ask for tonight, in reparation for services I've rendered?

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04:30, 28/08/03

22:25, 20/07/05 (edit). Correcting 'whether' and 'whose' thanks to a review pointing out these extremely idiotic errors on my part.


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